Boxing Day

By Kathleen Shoop

Donora, Pennsylvania—December, 1923
It’s Christmastime and twenty-four-year-old Socialite, Wrenly Hawthorne, is teetering between the comfort of family wealth and her risky drive for independence. Feeling estranged from friends and at odds with her parents, she is searching for “something more.” With keen interest in the freedom that the women’s right to vote should have brought, she studies the stock market and plans to attend school. She is sure she can build the life she wants, but will she risk everything to do it?
Enter boxer Cyril Mankovic. He returns to Donora after his mother dies while giving birth to his one and only sister, Olive. He is unprepared for what she and his seven younger brothers need and he is shocked that his father has no plan to care for them. Cyril’s quest to make fast money for his family brings him face-to-face with Wrenly at the moment she is firmly declining the proposal of a very “suitable man.” A WWI veteran, Cyril earns money barnstorming the country, living a life where only his needs matter. But the longer Cyril is home the more his sense of responsibility develops.
Family secrets, a Boxing Day boxing match, an exclusive women’s investment club, and the magic of the Donora holiday season merge Wrenly and Cyril’s paths in unforeseen ways. Is their growing affection enough to overcome their differences? Join them as the wonder of love and family challenges everything they thought they knew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathleen Shoop
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215247150

Kathleen Shoop

Kathleen Shoop is a Language Arts Coach with a PhD in Reading Education whose work has appeared in The Tribune Review, four Chicken Soup for the Soul books and Pittsburgh Parent Magazine. She lives in Oakmont, Pennsylvania with her husband and two children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cyril

Donora, Pennsylvania

December 1923

The party was in full swing, the sounds of Christmas carols and dancing feet coming from the Hawthornes’ first floor above, but the revelers did nothing to lift Cyril Mankovic’s sadness. In the cellar, he wiggled out of his coat, flung it onto a wooden chair near the coal chute and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. Two more houses to deliver to before he’d have enough money to buy more groceries for his brothers and help pay for his new baby sister’s nanny. Lord knew his dad wasn’t going to do it.

Cyril cleared his coal-dusted throat then went back to shoveling. He picked up speed like a train engine flying across the midwestern plain states, hauling him to his next boxing match. Scrape, toss, scrape, toss. Each movement scuffed at the anger and regret he felt about his mother’s death.

He was eighteen when his father threw him out of the house. Cyril spent time in the Army then barnstormed the country, boxing his way through small towns. Though it had felt like heaven to be out from under his dad during those years away, he faithfully wrote his mother and seven brothers, mailing portions of his winnings from every fight.

Now, at twenty-four, he was back home again. The image of his mom in the coffin hit him again and he choked up but kept shoveling. In his head she was still the beautiful woman she was when he left. He’d seen her last two years ago, and she still looked youthful then. But now, the last memory he had of her would stay in his mind—in that coffin, grayish, gaunt, and lifeless.

As soon as her funeral ended, he had wanted to flee but one look at his brothers and he couldn’t. He’d assigned himself the task of helping his father get things straightened so Cyril could leave without worrying. His mom had died in childbirth—a baby girl after eight boys. Just standing in the presence of Luka Mankovic made Cyril feel as though the old man had a vice grip around his neck. But in his mom’s memory he’d do it. He’d stay as long as it took to ensure his siblings had what they needed, then he could take back to the road, alone, the way he liked it, where he could forget his worry. He would send money to them and move on.

Breathing heavy, he leaned on the shovel handle, eyes burning with tears he’d stifled since he’d heard the news. The strains of a jazzy version of Joy to the World coming from above intruded on the cellar’s silence along with the shuffling sounds of dancing feet.

And sobbing. He distinctly heard someone besides him crying in the cellar.

He inched toward the opening leading to the main space. A woman sat on the bottom stair bathed in a golden lantern glow, her gold dress winking as its shiny threads caught the soft light. A fringy edging exposed her knees. Pretty knees.

He moved closer, squinting.

Wrenly Hawthorne. All grown up. A sparkly band held her bobbed hair back, and its golden waves were dotted with jewels forming night sky constellations. She dabbed her tears with a hanky then blew her nose sounding like a wounded elephant.

He howled with laughter. She startled, turning toward him.

He extended his hand. Oh, sorry. I uh... He hadn’t even realized the laugh had formed inside him until it escaped, as surprising to him as her nose-blowing.

She started to talk then stopped. Her face hardened. That’s rude.

Suppose it was, but...

She shuddered, eyes welling. Fine, go ahead. It’s the perfect ending to my perfectly awful night. So, I’ll just boo-hoo, and you can go on with your evidently perfectly cheerful life, why don’t you?

He stepped toward her. I didn’t mean to.

She fumbled her hanky and watched it flutter to the floor, then buried her face in her hands and sobbed harder.

He drew back. His mind spun through the memories of their childhood. He couldn’t remember seeing Wrenly suffer a moment’s tribulation. Rather she wreaked it on others—playing ball with the boys, climbing trees in summer despite scraped shins and knees, sliding into home base, creek walking and crayfish hunting on calloused feet—many a boy was demoralized by her prowess. Until they got to know her. Her weeping now was too much though. It was hard enough to handle his own emotions, but seeing her cry wrung his insides out.

He knelt, and they both grabbed for her hanky, bumping heads. The pain stung, and he could only imagine how his hard head would give her a lump to remember. She folded at the waist. He grabbed her shoulders to help her straighten, but she stiffened, and he let go. Wrenly, I’m so sorry.

She met his gaze.

Here... He used her hanky to wipe at her tears.

He drew back when he saw that the cloth was dirty from the floor and he’d deposited coal dust on her cheeks, dark swipes under her eyes.

Oh, God, he said, shoving one hand into his trouser pocket.

She continued to sob quietly as he pulled from his pocket an embroidered handkerchief. I’ve painted you in coal with your hanky.

He looked at his clean one, its fabric a blaze of white against the dark cellar. He’d discovered this handkerchief in his mom’s drawer with a note reminding her to mail it to Cyril for Christmas when she learned his whereabouts.

He lifted the embroidered square toward Wrenly. She rubbed her forehead where they’d bumped, crying too hard to notice the offering.

He brushed the fabric against the backs of her fingers. It’s clean, I promise. Just please, Wrenly. Take this. You’re breaking me in two with your bawling. For the love of Pete, please. He pushed it between her fingers.

She accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her face, finally making eye contact. Cyril.

He nodded.

I haven’t seen you in... She glanced at his hanky. Thank you. She turned away and blew into it, sounding like an elephant again.

Cyril didn’t know why hearing her blow her nose like that made him laugh but it did all over again.

She turned back to him shaking her head.

He shrugged. What? It’s cute. It’s so unlike you. Well, this grown-up you anyway. You were a loud kid for sure but... look at you now. You’re so...

"So what?"

Not. Loud, I mean, you’re... The word delicate sprung to his lips, but he kept it to himself. He wasn’t some pretty-word spouting man. But he did feel bad for her. Not being good with things like this, he tried to be witty. What’s wrong? Someone die or somethin’? He forced a chuckle seeing she didn’t know his mother had died.

He could see she struggled to swallow. "No, Cyril. It’s stupid, it’s... I’m stupid. She rapped her clutched fist against her forehead then winced. So dumb."

Come on, no way.

There’s a way, all right. In between the jitterbug, my second flute of champagne, too much crudité, the Charleston, the old folks waltz, and a resplendent version of Joy to the World I told Henry Walton to go take a flying leap off the Donora bridge.

Well...

She shook her head.

That blunderbuss? Telling Henry Walton to beat it makes you smart in my book. Cyril knew people could change and he had no idea what type of man Henry Walton had become. If he’s still the kind of guy who’s selfish and senseless, I mean. I dunno. I’ve been gone for years.

The cellar door opened, flooding the stairwell with light. Wrenly turned toward the sound of someone calling her name. Cyril kept his attention on Wrenly.

Come up here at once. Your mother’s gnawing at me like a rabid dog wanting to send out a search party because she can’t find you for the toast. Henry said you’d gone, and I thought, no, she wouldn’t do that. That wouldn’t make a lick of sense. And my daughter is nothing if not sensible.

Wrenly didn’t move.

George Hawthorne descended the stairs and when he reached the bottom treads, he noticed Cyril. He looked at his daughter’s tear-stained, soot-covered face and back at Cyril. Did this man hurt you?

She shook her head and dabbed her tears. No, no. Father. It’s Cyril Mankovic. He was just...

Cyril held up the shovel. Shoveling coal. Mr. Blake needed an extra man, and I was here for—

"Mank’s Grill Mankovics? Mr. Hawthorne said. Near the zinc mill?"

Down Meldon Avenue, yes. My uncle owns the grill. My dad is—well, he’s skilled in many trades. Cyril nearly choked on the description.

Mr. Hawthorne scoffed. His tone came across loud and clear.

Cyril rose to his full height. Even with the older man standing up a few stairs, Cyril was taller. He balled his left fist, the motion automatic and protective as he’d learned to be. He reminded himself this wasn’t a life-or-death situation or even a match. It was simply an insult, and he didn’t need to let that rile him. Everything in the world didn’t have to be a fight. Not anymore.

Mr. Hawthorne glanced at Wrenly then back at Cyril. Your mother. You’re back for her, right? She—

Cyril was surprised to hear Mr. Hawthorne refer to his mom. Died. Yes. He gripped the banister to steady himself.

Wrenly’s eyes went wide. Died? I’m so sorry. She put her hand over his. The three of them stared at her comforting gesture. She finally snatched it away under her father’s glare.

Cyril gripped the banister harder. Back for the funeral and the new baby, my brothers, all of them. He changed the subject. And when I stumbled upon Wrenly here blubbering I just—

Blubbering? Mr. Hawthorne said. Why on earth?

Because.

Mr. Hawthorne raised his eyebrows.

Wrenly’s shoulders slumped. I told Henry to scram and...

Wrenly. Mr. Hawthorne stretched her name through gritted teeth. This is your engagement party. His parents...

She stood to face her father, and Cyril stepped back wanting nothing to do with her explanation of a lover’s spat.

"No one told me it was an engagement party. Least of all my engagement party."

You had to have known. You told him your ring size was five and—criminy, Wrenly, a man doesn’t ask for a ring size for any other reason.

You can call the party whatever you’d like, but I won’t harness myself to a man I don’t love and... She winced. Can you imagine the life I’d have if I marry him?

"He’s a millionaire. You love money. A match made in heaven."

He’s... I don’t want him. I don’t need him. She lifted her chin and pushed her shoulders down as though girding against her father. I. Don’t. Love. Him.

So, you’re just going to what? Take correspondence courses? Be an old maid? If you don’t... Mr. Hawthorne pulled up to his full height and adjusted his cummerbund as though he needed to be in perfect stead to face down his daughter. You are beautiful, but that is your single greatest possession. And that only lasts so long. After that, it’s over. Well. Look at your mother.

Wrenly put the hanky to her mouth, but it did nothing to camouflage her gasp.

Cyril felt those words land on Wrenly like a roundhouse. He took another step back wishing he was miles away, yet he didn’t make a run for it.

Mr. Hawthorne glanced at Cyril again. Take a good look at Cyril here—shoveling coal for extra cash instead of dressed in a nice tux, dancing the night away at a party like yours. You’re twenty-four years old. If you turn down one more engagement...

Cyril’s a fine dancer; he’s simply discerning about where he dances.

Cyril cringed, not wanting to be drawn further into their argument. Yet, since he was now the subject of discussion, he stayed to listen. He was in fact a good dancer, but Wrenly wouldn’t know that.

She looked him up and down. Cyril would make a fine dance partner.

"That’s your game? You’ll have Cyril here take you to a dance at St. Dominic’s, or you’ll go watch the picture show matinee? Might as well take out an advertisement in The Evening Herald announcing that Wrenly Hawthorne has given up on life."

She smiled at Cyril. Yes.

Yes what? Cyril and Mr. Hawthorne said simultaneously.

I’m going to the show with Cyril. He’s even given me his hanky. She shook it at her father.

Oh, that’s just because... Cyril said, "I didn’t give it... I saw her bawling and it’s more like a lending situation..."

A date? Mr. Hawthorne jammed his thumb toward Cyril. With the coal man?

Well, temporarily a coalman. I’m a boxer but...

Mr. Hawthorne turned fully to Cyril and narrowed his eyes. Oh. That’s right. Cyril ‘the Cobra’ Mankovic. He moved his gaze up and down Cyril’s body.

Father was a boxer, too, Wrenly said. Follows all the action. Boxing this, investing that. Same old rigamarole.

Mr. Hawthorne drew a deep breath. I had my day in the ring.

Welterweight champion! Wrenly’s voice rose and fell in the style of an announcer making Cyril grin.

Mr. Hawthorne’s voice grew deeper, more serious. He shook his finger at Cyril. Yes, yes. I’ve seen your name pop up in the papers occasionally.

Cyril gave him a nod, feeling a stitch of pride.

And now here you are, washed up, doing menial labor like Mankovics do, looking to lure my daughter.

Cyril bit his lip, wanting to pummel the man. His mother might have been a washerwoman and his dad a laborer, but Emma Mankovic was the best kind of woman.

Mr. Hawthorne put up one hand. Your mother was a good soul. Everyone knows that. But, he knifed one hand at Wrenly, his plight has nothing to do with you. This is not funny, young lady.

She straightened and counted on one finger at a time. "I’m a woman not a lady. Twenty-four years old. I have a head for business. I can vote. And—"

The vote! The vote! He tossed his hands above his head. Enough with the vote! Enough with you flapping around in these blasted short dresses.

Wrenly pushed her chest out, chin up, surprising Cyril. This was not how women like her talked to their fathers. You did name me after a bird, and birds flap, Father, then soar. She moved her arms like a bird. I’m just fulfilling my destiny.

That damn name. He grabbed his chest. You’re making my heart skip. I’ve literally missed four heartbeats since coming down these stairs. He patted his suit.

Wrenly reached into his tux pocket and produced a tin and shook it. Your nitroglycerin.

He took it and tucked a pill under his tongue.

This interaction softened her posture before she stiffened again. I can make my own decisions and I’ve decided to give Henry the heave-ho and take up with Cyril Mankovic.

Cyril felt dizzy, like he’d been clocked in the fifteenth round.

No, Mr. Hawthorne said. Not some boxer.

The words roused Cyril back to his senses. Sounds like an insult.

Mr. Hawthorne glared at Cyril.

Cyril shrugged. "I’m just a fella with a fifty-seven and three record who’s back in town to say goodbye to his mother and was sent here to shovel coal for some extra dough for the holidays. Not to find ladies—I mean women—to twirl around the dance floor or sit at the Grand all day watching picture shows. And I’m certainly not your punching bag. Sir." He backed toward the coal piles.

"You don’t want to court my daughter?"

No. Sir.

What? Father and daughter said.

Cyril spread his arms, the shovel dangling from one hand. No.

You’re pulling foot on her?

I just—

Mr. Hawthorne shook his finger at Wrenly again. This is the kind of fella you want to waste your time on? Asks you out then says no.

Waste? Cyril said.

Hawthorne kept his gaze on Wrenly. "You’re always pushing me about ridiculous things. Boxers who don’t rise above their station are not to your standard. Our standard. We are an us, we are an our, and he is not in our us."

Cyril stepped toward them, curling his hand around the shovel handle. I’m plenty her standard.

"So, you do want to take my daughter out?"

Cyril looked at Wrenly. Her pleading expression indicated she’d been serious. Intriguing. What would it hurt to spend some time with a beautiful woman while he was settling his mother’s affairs? We’ll have dinner and a show. Saturday. Morrison’s. Then the Grand for a movie. Us two. We’re an us. He moved his hand back and forth. Our own us. Separate from your us.

He winked at Wrenly. Even in the dim lantern light he could see she had gone to blushing. He sauntered toward the furnace room.

Be on time, Mr. Hawthorne said. Hawthornes don’t tolerate tardy people.

And I don’t tolerate jagoffs.

Excuse me?

Cyril was already back to shoveling, the noise covering his voice.  Merry Christmas. I said merry, merry Christmas. Enjoy your party.

Above the cellar, the orchestra and a chorus of voices rang out Jingle Bells. The joviality in contrast with his sadness over his mother’s death made him stop. What had he done agreeing to take Wrenly to a movie? He’d just bought himself some hassle, and he’d be spending money he needed for his family. He would pull foot just like he was accused of. He didn’t have time for this. He jogged toward the stairs as Wrenly half disappeared upward.

Without him saying a word she stepped back down. He expected her to tell him he didn’t have to come, that she really didn’t want to see him beyond this—whatever this had been.

She clutched Cyril’s hanky to her chest, mouthing the words, Thank you.

Wrenly! her father bellowed.

She turned and dashed upward, the fringes of her dress swinging around her long legs as the cellar door closed behind her.

Hol-lee mackerel. Cyril pressed his head where he’d hit into Wrenly’s. Those legs. Nothing drew him to a woman faster than beautiful legs. But this woman felt like trouble. Another of his very favorite things.

Chapter 2

Wrenly

Wrenly refolded Cyril’s hanky and tucked it back in her bodice. In the kitchen scrub room she looked in the mirror and with a hand towel she scoured the soot from her face. Then she spent much of the remaining Christmas party that was masquerading as an engagement party in the kitchen with Esmerelda and Louisa, hiding from her parents and Henry’s. She got to work filling champagne flutes, plating cake, loading each slice onto trays that the waitstaff whisked away for the guests. Earlier that month she’d decorated the kitchen with pine boughs, holly and red ribbon, wanting the cook’s and maid’s workspaces to be as festive as any other part of the home.

I don’t want to get married just because someone tells me to, she said for the seventh time. I don’t love Henry. I don’t even like him.

Louisa grumbled and Esmerelda practically growled.

Esmerelda, Wrenly said, why do you keep making that ghastly noise every time I say that? You aren’t married. I don’t hear you crying in your soup because you’re not engaged.

Esmerelda exhaled so deeply she bent over, clutching her tea towel to her belly. I don’t have the option right now. And you better believe if some millionaire...

He’s not a millionaire. His father is. Henry’s a guy sitting at a desk at a bank all day saying hello to other men who want nothing more than to check on the same money they had there the day before. Henry’s not even smart enough to invest in the market. Do you know his father doesn’t invest in stocks?

Neither do I, Esmerelda said.

Wrenly sighed. Most Americans didn’t. I don’t mean anything about you, but someone like his family? How can they not? Very old-fashioned. I simply can’t hitch my wagon to people so stale in their financial dealings. Besides, his palms sweat, and when we dance my body stiffens like one of those rods they make down in the mill. From what I’ve been told I’m supposed to melt, not harden in the arms of a man.

Esmerelda whipped the side of Wrenly’s leg with the towel. "Mierda! If your mother hears you talk like that..."

Wrenly rolled her eyes, rubbing the spot where she’d been swatted.

"Mierda. Esmerelda leaned in and put her hand to her mouth. The money will be his someday and he’ll make more and add to it, and you’ll have servants and beautiful clothing, and diamonds strung through your hair every day if you want..."

Wrenly touched her head, her fingers brushing over the array of diamonds, quickly assessing that she hadn’t lost a one. You’re right.

’Course I’m right, Esmerelda said. Now put that diamond ring back on and go find your fella.

No. I mean, I’ve got to stop wearing diamonds as though I’m some sort of queen. Think of all the good I could do with the money that these are worth. She plucked each one out of her hair.

"Mierda, I said nothing like that. Esmerelda shook her head and shoved her hands in the dish water, scrubbing away. How did you go from so smart to... this? Whatever this is that you’re doing? The more you study, the dumber you get. Henry is a fine gentleman."

Wrenly put the diamond hairpins in the nail tin from the wire mill in the junk drawer, then tied an apron around her waist and joined Esmerelda at the sink. She pushed her hands into the water and snatched them out. Ohh, it’s hot.

Esmerelda grabbed Wrenly’s wrists, soap dripping. You can’t even stand the water long enough to scrub a bit. Esmerelda shook out a fresh towel and gently dried Wrenly’s hands.

You should have seen him, Wrenly said, enjoying the doting touch of the woman who’d spent more time with her than her own mother.

I did see him. She patted the last of the water and suds away. Handsome as all get out.

The dim cellar light—

Cellar? Louisa said, taking the empty trays from the servers parading through the kitchen and sipping cool water between return runs to the dining room.

"Henry was in the cellar?" Esmerelda said.

No, silly. Wrenly sighed and looked to the ceiling. Cyril.

Esmeralda and one of the servants exchanged looks. Cyril? they said at the same time.

Louisa plugged her fists on her hips. The fella who brought the extra coal tonight?

"Cyril ‘the Cobra’ Mankovic." Wrenly shot her hand forward mimicking a cobra strike.

I don’t know what that means, Esmerelda said.

Wrenly shrugged. Neither do I, not really. But when we were kids Cyril used to let me play baseball with the fellas. And grown-up Cyril is dreamy.

Esmerelda patted her neck with the towel, looking confused. Mother’s a washerwoman?

She died though, apparently, Wrenly said. Didn’t realize it. I should make his family something. A potato and cheese casserole maybe? Nice cinnamon rolls?

The servers took drags from cigarettes and downed water, quietly following the conversation. Though they weren’t employed daily at the Hawthornes’, they’d worked there enough to grasp much of what was being discussed.

What... wait—the cellar? Esmerelda measured coffee into several percolators, lost track of the scoops then started counting again, and satisfied, put each on a burner on the stove. "What were you doing in the cellar with... a stranger. The Cobra? What does that mean?"

He’s no stranger, and boy did he get handsome. All these years. Skyscraper tall, bit of a string bean though, but my type, I think. I didn’t realize it but he was so sweet. The way he looked at me. Amused and kind. Gave me his hanky. You’ll have to see him. You can come with me when I drop off the casserole. Or wait until he comes to pick me up for dinner and a show.

Esmerelda grunted and loaded more cake onto the trays and ordered the servants to make another round to the guests to fill the time before the coffee would be ready. I feel like I’m thinking in my native Spanish again. What do you mean, movies with this coalman, and whose mother just died?

He’s a boxer, not a coalman. Father recognized him after he told us that.

Esmeralda pursed her lips. You hate boxing.

Well, I’m not so sure I do. I feel like I like boxers when they’re not boxing. I can’t appreciate the violence of the act itself, but he must be good. I like a boxer’s strength. Even if Cyril’s seems to be stretched between his lanky limbs. I got all warm when our eyes met. He must be good if Father recognized his name. But what do I know about the boxing profession? All I know is those penetrating brown eyes were divine.  Knocked me right out. That I know. She patted her chest. I’m still winded.

Don’t use that word, penetrate, Esmerelda said. It’s not ladylike.

Wrenly dug into the neckline of her dress and retrieved a handkerchief. He gave me this when I was crying, and you know, now that I’m thinking back to me caterwauling like a wounded cat, when he handed me this, his face was streaked. She squeezed the hanky harder. Little streams of tears through his coal-dusted cheeks. And I didn’t even ask him what was wrong. Wrenly brushed her cheek with the hanky. ’Course, now I know. His mother died.

Louisa approached holding up a trap with two mice in it. I’m going to start killing these things. They keep burrowing back. All these critters. The bird was back today too.

Wrenly shoved the hanky in her brassiere and took the trap. Don’t you dare hurt my tiny beasts of burden. I recognize every critter, and these two are new to us. She grabbed a few nuts from a silver bowl and fed them to the mice. And the cardinal is spectacular. He’s looking for his mate. So don’t bother him a bit. She headed toward the back door knowing where she would release the mice in the garden, at the spot near the fence where they kept a straw nest.

Louisa stalked away. You can’t take in every lost soul, Miss Wrenly. Animals are not sanitary.

And neither are boxers, Esmerelda said as Wrenly shut the back door behind her.

Chapter 3